


my father / Mother angel dust.

by Xandra_Harris



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Family Feels, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xandra_Harris/pseuds/Xandra_Harris
Summary: Harry is being raised by the most perverted spider demon in hell let the shenanigans begin.
Relationships: Loona/Harry potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Anthony shivered as the early morning wind whistled between his legs and nicked at his bare arms. Cold as hell. Hot as hell. They both applied - there was never any comfortable weather. You either felt like a frog in a pot slowly coming to a boil or like an arctic tic just bit you in the ass. There were few in-betweens.

The sheer fabric and shortness of his skirt together with his slim jacket did little to cover up his body - his clothes didn't serve what had always been the traditional purpose of clothing (that is, to protect and warm) but rather as decorations for the goods.

For his goods, himself, and them being the same. On this morning, more than others did he feel like a purchased item: some sad, broken condom strewn upon the side of the street.

The wind rippled through his pale fur and stung his eyes. This time of the morning was when Hell was at its most dormant: in the living world at around eight AM, streets were busy with people hopping to and fro, cars honking and general clamor resounding between buildings in preparation for the day. But who the fuck was going to be up at 8 AM in Hell?

At that time, more than any others did this place really seem like the pit for damned souls that it truly was. It was a cold morning without the promise of the sun, the passing of a dead day under a pit.

His throat was still sore from the night's proceedings - he didn't remember any other of Valentino's punishments having been so harsh. Every concave inch of his body felt raw and bleeding, and his skin was almost worming away from him as if it didn't really belong to him anymore.

Although he had been under Valentino's terrible wings for more than a few years, and though he wasn't a prim and proper toy soldier (was anyone here?), he'd never had to face the great ring-handed slap Valentino had dealt with him that night. He pushed it into some rotting corner of his head, of his hollow chest. He didn't have to think about it anymore, and he had paid the debt, all holes slathered over with filler.

Nothing like that would ever happen again - he had a life that felt eternal before him, and though he'd never be wise, perhaps he could avoid ever being so foolish again. In the uncomfortable limbo of the think-of-it-don't-think-of-it dance, his brain was pirouetting around, and something broke him out of limbo.

Between the odd, far-off sounds of bottles breaking against heads and asphalt and the few scattered stragglers milling drunkenly about, there came the shrill, clear screech of a baby's crying. Tony's hair stood on end. Demon babies sounded like a bag of cats being pounded against concrete, like a bunch of nails in a blender, like Skrillex, but this - this was just plain old crying.

He'd heard it a few times when he'd been around babies. Living babies. Breathing, undemonic, nonHell-dwelling babies. And then his inner dialogue clicked on as routine, like an older man turning on the radio to listen to the war or whatever it was that interested older people.

Angel: It's a kid. Just a kid. Go to it. Angel Dust: So what if it's a kid? What am I gonna do with it? Pop it like a canapé? Angel: Go. Angel Dust: You're ridiculous. Go to sleep and get some drugs - that was the plan.

I ain't starting a daycare. Angel: Go. Anthony, who felt the better Angel's presence so remote considering everything that had happened a few hours earlier, was surprised to find his long, aching legs kicking up garbage as they sped toward the sound of the suicidal baby's wailing.

He stopped at a graffitied tunnel that lay crumbling just under what might've once been a railway station. The tunnel was nearly flooded, and Angel's white fur became stained with shit brown.

He groaned and started considering maybe making some masochistic masturbation films - since he liked fucking himself over so much. He kicked up a ball of crap that had tangled itself into his legs and noticed it landed on the source of the crying. "Shit." He sped to the infant, a filthy smear of indescribable substances on its forehead.

It's wide; clearly, human eyes struck Anthony. It'd been so long since he'd seen anything of the sort. In fact, he never thought he'd see such purity ever again. And he certainly didn't count on finding it in a sewer in the shape of an abandoned baby.

Looking around, there clearly wasn't anyone to claim it. He was quite surprised to find the child intact that no creep had taken it home to make tender, sweet-pea-baby soup. Angel knelt beside it and swiped the filth from its forehead. The child bore an odd, lightning-shaped scar. Hm.

Maybe he actually wasn't unscathed. But really - what in the fuck was it doing here? Not just here as in this random tunnel, but here, dead, in Hell. Well, he thought, staring at its rosy cheeks, not really dead.

"Right, you little fucker," he grumbled, scooping the swath of trouble into his arms and tucking him into the folds of his chest. If anyone saw him, he'd say it was a prop for a particularly freaky client.

Who would even think it was odd? No one - and anyway, most demons minded their business unless they were trying to kill you or fuck you. He doubted anyone wanted to kill him right now, and he felt he'd already fucked this whole side of the pentagram tonight. Nothing to worry about.

As he sped through the dilapidated streets, the stupid baby goblin started crying again. Angel cursed and put his thumb in the kid's mouth in a fashion more like a gag than a pacifier. The little turd started sucking on it immediately.

"Boy, does this remind me of something," Angel muttered to himself? His exhaustion and confusion toward the whole situation had neared him to delirium. When he arrived at his apartment, he collapsed. Maybe he'd wake up, and the child would have vanished, just a figment of his overworked imagination and a stressed mind.

He convinced himself of the child's existence as he dozed off on the moth-eaten plush couch, part of him already adopting that parental stance of keeping one eye open in case something happened to their child. He did leave the baby on the syringe-littered floor, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer I don't own the Harry Potter or the hazbin hotel franchise please go support the official releases of both.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony stroked his chin pensively as he observed the squealing baby on the floor. Angel Dust: Throw it out. What's the use of having it here? It won't even pay the rent. Roast him with potatoes. Babies are supposed to be the tenderest meat. Angel: Can't throw it out. It's just a baby. Angel Dust: Then sell it. Do you know how much a wealthy freak would pay for a fresh baby?

Also, did it just shit itself? Anthony wrinkled his nose and knelt to pick the stinking baby up by its chubby little ankle. It whooped and laughed its baby laughter. A chord within him struck.

It really was just a tiny, inoffensive, pooping baby. Hanging upside down, Anthony bent his head to observe it better. He set it on the kitchen counter and roughly removed its filthy swaths, throwing it out the window. He heard a car's tires screech suddenly as a result. A wriggling, shit-stained cherub was in his kitchen.

He ran it - no, his - butt under the tap. The water was so contaminated here it probably made him dirtier than he'd been in the first place. He then set him down on the dilapidated couch, which was the most baby-friendly place in the apartment. He crossed his arms, observing it with care. What to do with you, mongrel?

He left the baby alone, exiting his apartment with a lit cigarette between his fingers. There was a multitude of options if he decided to rid himself of the child, pennies from heaven, so it wasn't that which made him so hesitant.

Was he really debating keeping some random, half-living monstrosity of a kid, and what? Being its daddy? Angel unthinkingly threw his half-smoked cigarette into a stranger's face. They screamed and started cussing, rubbing the ash from their eyes. "It's an improvement," Angel called out after them, swaying his hips.

It was nighttime, a busy, bustling time in Hell, and the heat from ravaged bodies made Anthony sweat profusely. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the pressures of parenthood. Ha.

He had walked about twenty minutes before realizing where his feet had been taking him subconsciously. He leaped over a rotten pile of hen fruit and entered the circle's biggest garbage site.

The odor of death and rot immediately assaulted his nose, and he shoved his arm onto his face to shield himself from it. Eyes watering like they had last night, he crept over to the mountains of rickety old discarded furniture on his right. After rummaging through it, hating himself all the while, he finally found what he'd been looking for.

A light-wood, shaggy crib sagged under the weight of hefty, rough blankets and a coat rack. Anthony used all his strength (which wasn't a great deal to speak of) and toss6ed off all the objects on top of it.

The thing was unhygienic and molding in most parts, but it was baby-sized, and that was what mattered. The stupid thing's splintered legs didn't have any wheels, so Angel had to haul it out, the wood screeching against the ground. The number of dirty looks he earned from people passing him on the street made him irritable and uncomfortable. He wanted to punch them all in the face or liquefy them.

Mainly, he feared someone he knew would spot him and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, to which he would have no answer, neither for them nor for himself.

And, of course, because he had the shittiest luck, a voice called his name from behind him. "Hey! Angie!" Cherri Bomb trotted up to him, her singular eye analyzing him up and down. "Need some help?"

A few minutes later, after dragging the crib sweatily behind them, Cherri stood, arms crossed, watching as the kid nibbled on the wood of the crib, no doubt infested with toxic mold. Angie removed him from the floor and set him down carelessly inside the crib.

It sank with the boy's weight. Both Cherri and Angie watched him with cautious expressions, as someone might watch a crouching tiger, not an unmeaning baby. "So… what's with the piglet?" Cherri asked, her head tilted to the side. Anthony paused before replying, wringing his hands.

He supposed that by going out searching for the crib, he'd made his decision. He couldn't second-guess himself now - how would this make any sense otherwise? "Right, so, that's the kid." He said confidently. Cherri was a little unbelieving, but her expression wasn't one of complete disdain. She only seemed weary of it. "Why is he so... not dead?"

She asked, plucking the child's elastic cheek with her forefinger and her thumb. "No idea." The naked kid watched them as intently as they watched him. With a little infantile chuckle, he suddenly sprouted a black, charred tail. Cherri exhaled. "That's new," Angie remarked, half to Cherri, half to himself. "Is it yours?" She asked apprehensively.

"Mine? Do I look like I have a uterus, Sugar Tits?" Cherri rolled her eye. "You know what I mean." "I'll have you know my pullout is immaculate." Cherri leveled her face with the kid. He was clutching his new tail with curious enthusiasm. "Well, I don't know what his deal is, but I don't trust him." "He's a kid; what could he possibly do?"

"Kids can be psychopaths," she reminded him apathetically. But as she caught the fond, kind glimmer in Angel's eyes watching the little boy chewing on his tail, she was suddenly dissuaded from bumming Angel out with this matter.

It seemed something real, something for Angie to cling to. She hadn't failed to notice the clumps of dried blood that were barely visible from under his short skirt or the tired, scared look in his eyes, opaqued by his clear affection for the child.

"So, what are you going to feed it?" "Him," Angel corrected. "I don't know. What do babies even eat - grass? Plastic? Beats me." Cherri stuck out a hand and peeled back the child's upper lip. "It doesn't really have any teeth to bite that with." "Vodka?" Angie suggested.

"Whatever it is, you should get it soon. I have to go, and I have a date to go bomb someone." Angie stood upright and watched as the kid blew out a snot bubble from his nose. Gross. Still, she felt she had to leave something behind to help Angie and his weird new pet as if it were a baby shower or something.

With a flick of her hand, there suddenly appeared a small, green bomb that matched the baby's eyes on the palm of her hand. She set it down gently beside the little creature together with a match.

"To further his education," she said, flipping her ponytail back and slamming Angie's door behind her. Angie's eyes scoured over the kid for a second before he, too, left the apartment in search of vodka.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer I don't own the Harry Potter or the Hazbin hotel franchise. Please support the official releases of both.

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"Keep your hands steady, or I'll flip my goddamn wig!" Angel called from a distance as Harry's wide, slitted eyes flitted between the empty vodka bottles. Angel had lined side by side fifteen feet in front of him.

"This isn't working!" He called out nervously, his tiny, outstretched hand quivering as he clenched his fist time and time again with no result. Earlier that evening, as Harry and Angel argued heatedly over some trivial affair or another, Angel had called him a 'dirty little motherless twerp,' and Harry had been so heavily affected by it that he'd let out a hair-raising, spine-splitting scream. It reverberated through the entire apartment, knocking over greasy boxes of pizza and half-empty bottles of red wine.

It had been so strong that the windows had shattered, the wooden floors of the ratty apartment split like old, dry matches. When it was over, Angel heard the infernal complaints of the neighbors, but he could only focus on the powerful, frowning toddler standing rigid with his little curled hands and tears in his eyes.

"Ho-lee shit, kid." He whistled. Ignoring the neighbors' thunderous grumblings, he gathered the surviving bottles of alcohol into the folds of his chest and took Harry by the ear, racing out of the house and straight to the garbage site where he'd first found the crib. Angel rarely let Harry leave the house, so as confused and upset as the child had been, he found his mood incredibly improved by the outside air.

The garbage site was frequent - if not one of the only spots they went to. Harry, by now, was pleased by the rank, uncomfortable smell the place had because it was linked to some of his favorite memories with Angel.

They'd usually arrive in the early afternoon and leave late at night with armfuls of useless crap they'd taken a liking to, laughing and smelling like corpses. But now? It seemed Angel wanted Harry to repeat what he'd done at the house. He didn't even really know what had happened - something inside him just been pulled taut like a rubber band, so hard it had suddenly snapped when Angel reprimanded him.

Now, the rubber band was as loose and flaccid as it usually was, and Harry felt like a fool clenching his chubby, scaled fists into the air, wishing at least one of the bottles would explode or fly off to the side so Angel would be proud and not smack his behind for smashing all the windows.

After fifteen minutes of watching Harry try and hopelessly fail to affect the bottles, Angel had resorted to weird, strangely specific instructions and encouragement. C'mon Harry! You can do it. Remember when you set fire to aunt Cherri's hair? Don't let your hands drop! It's all in the wrists - keep it loose! LOOSE! Clench your butt while you do it Har, it always works for me. But after a while, it was evident that the kid simply did not have it in him, and tears had begun to build up once again in his eyes.

Angel momentarily considered pushing him. After all, it was his particularly nasty insult that had triggered Harry's little display. He thought of it for only a second. He wasn't about to do that to the kid again. Instead, Angel stood from where he'd been lounging on a puked couch and put his hand on Harry's shoulder, kneeling so he'd be at an equal level with him.

"Hey, it's alright, we'll get it next time." Harry looked up at him with his sweet little eyes, and Angel melted. "You know I didn't mean what I said earlier, right? How can you be motherless if I am your mother?" Angel pushed his tight jacket up to make himself comically bustier. Harry laughed a little, and Angel put a hand on his black-haired head.

He noticed white hair growing out of it and something hard that wasn't exactly skull. Angel rummaged his fingers through the kid's hair suddenly, and, just as he suspected, two little golden stubs were growing out of the child's head. "Look at that," he huffed. "Looks, you're going to be as horny as your mother."

Angel didn't know exactly when Harry's birthday was since he wasn't a newborn when he'd picked him up in the tunnel, and he was shit at estimating children's ages. Or, really, any wackjob's age down here. But Cherri had said he was definitely a Leo, so they had gone to some whacky old lady that lived near Cherri who claimed she could match a person's personality to their birthdays and decided on the 30th of July.

The old hag had been completely off her rocker, and she'd even claimed she had to spit on Harry to have a better sense of his reception of her saliva. Whatever that fucking meant. Regardless, they had a birthdate for Harry, and his seventh was approaching.

The little horns that timidly peeked from the top of his head were beginning to form themselves, gleaming between the kid's thick mess of dark hair. In fact, Harry's hair was a completely different, worrying topic in and of itself - both Cherri and Angel had noticed the excessive appearance of white hairs growing sporadically on it like the kid was Benjamin Button or something.

At first, Angel had fretted obsessively over it - was Harry dying? Had all that toxic mold he'd accidentally consumed when he was a baby begun poisoning him slowly? Were these side effects of Harry being an unliving, undead entity in Hell? Was he drinking bleach again without Angel noticing? All this and more raced through Angel's mind.

But since he'd first noticed it two years earlier, Harry had continued growth in the same healthy - and yet somewhat alarming - manner. Harry looked like a moody preteen at just seven, but his sweet, sparkling eyes contradicted his tall, buff, black-scaled exterior. The scales and the hair had multiplied through the years, grown together with Harry. So the easiest and most calming explanation for it all was that Harry was simply.

Adapting to his demon form - whatever odd condition had driven him to hell half-alive was now making him adapt to his surroundings - and that was good. Angel watched the little boy before him hungrily shoveling fluorescent marshmallow cereal into his mouth and wondered whether he hadn't spoiled him. Not in the material sense - they lived in a goddamn sty - but rather in a protective way.

There'd been certain situations that had struck Angel as softness on Harry's part through the years, and not necessarily bad softness either, and it was just the softness of a kind heart. But it had no place down here. Harry's vulnerability and glossy eyes were like the soft, fragile wings of a beautiful bluebird - and Hell was a demonic cat.

Angel's eyes lingered on the purple-black shadows lurking under Harry's eyes. "Dreams?" He questioned, his hand on his chin. Harry's eyes automatically hovered over his scar. No matter how his flesh seemed to morph and change - now human, now draconian - or how his hair altered, that scar seemed embedded into his flesh, the only permanent part of his ever-changing self.

"Yeah." "Anything you can distinguish?" It was from Harry's feverish, hazy dreams that anyone had gotten a clue as to who Harry was or what he was doing there. They'd just been calling him 'kid' or 'the little turd' until, when he was three, he began squealing 'Harry! Harry!' in a berserk way in the middle of the night. Angel had stomped over to where Harry's then-outgrown crib was parked in the living room, hands on his hips, hair in curlers, and shook Harry awake. Harry snapped to consciousness, sweating profusely, evidently frightened and shaken.

Angel had held a hand to the child's forehead and burned himself on the searing red emblem of his scar. Angel rocked him and cooed him to tranquility as best he could even though he himself wasn't particularly calm, either, and after the child had settled, Angel lay him down again. From his nibbled blanket, Harry stared up intensely at Angel.

"My name is Harry," he'd said, quietly but with force. Angel was struck. "Right, then, Harry. Go on off to bed before one of the neighbors takes a machete to my head." And he'd been surprised by how fitting the name was. Now, looking at him, he was expectant. Maybe one of Harry's dreams would reveal who he'd been, why he was in that half-caught state of living and dying. He only shook his head, dejected and uncomfortable. Angel let the subject drop - it wasn't as despairing and sad for anyone as it was for Harry.

At that moment, Cherri Bomb kicked the door open with her single stiletto heel. "God fuck it, Cherri! I just replaced that since Harry decided to blow off some steam by burning it instead of jerking off like a normal kid." "What's a jerk-" Harry began. "Not now, kid." "Do you remember those whores that used to bully me in school?" Cherri asked, oblivious to the fumes coming out of Angie's head. She tossed herself on the couch, licking a lollipop. "No?" "Anyway, their kids are still alive - I want them dead." She smiled, making a crushing gesture with her fist.

"Right, well-" "I found a murder company that will take care of them for me. I think they're a couple of scumbags that are gonna try to rip me off, though, so I figured who better to help with the art of the deal than my very own Karen-ised Angie?" Angel ran a hand through his face. "I am not Karen-ised." "Right, why don't you take it up with the manager?" She made a popping sound with the lollipop. "Anyway, are you coming?" "Why the hell not?" Angel fixed his jacket. "Can I come, too?" Harry quipped up shyly, dry milk on the bottom of his chin.

"No. Absolutely no fucking way." Cherri rushed over to Harry and put her hands on his shoulder. "C'mon, Angie - look at the kid. No one would think he isn't a demon. Plus, no one is going to see him." Both Cherri and Harry gave him baby eyes. Angel huffed. "Ugh, fine." As they headed out the door, Angel took Cherri Bomb by the elbow. "And you're buying me a shit-ton of drugs."


	4. Chapter 4

In Harry's dreams, when all was not black, it was the color of fresh-drawn blood. Darker, lighter red, drawn from different arteries, differently slit, sliced, slashed places of the body. He knew it was blood though he couldn't really see its form.

It was a great, abstract painting, and the only two colors he'd seen until a while ago were the colors of death and carnage. The biggest massacre of humanity seemed to take place every night as he slept - but when he woke, it all vanished between his fingers, a crackling fire that burned hot and tall, only to be snuffed into unconquerable smoke beyond his grasp. He'd thought that those colors, which he was so certain were representative of the horrors that his time in the living world had signified, were the worst possible shades known to humanity.

But in his last dream, he'd come to know another, and this was somehow far worse. It was the first time since the clear lucidity of hearing a woman's name call out the name 'Harry!' that he remembered anything concrete from before he arrived in Hell. There had been a new color - a wicked, turbulent slice of green that had cut right into his eyesight.

He'd jolted awake as if shocked, sweating, and afraid. His thin mattress was soaked all the way through, and when he'd gone to the bathroom to splash fresh water on his face, he'd turned on the cold, harsh lights, and under them, his eyes burned with the same feverish green color of madness and rot. He'd almost screamed. He felt he was dead. The blood, the darkness, all of that was just a consequence of the green. There was nothing more terrible than the bright, serpentine flash of his eyes. He hadn't been able to look in the mirror since.

A week after that first dream was when Angel had taken his face in his hands and asked him: "Dreams?" He'd brushed it off quickly and nonchalantly, but his heart had done a fluttering leap like it does when you're caught doing something you shouldn't. Not that that had happened very often, not with Angel as his guardian. Except for that time, he'd caught him drinking bleach.

He hadn't been able to fall asleep properly - he hadn't wanted to sleep at all for fear of what might appear before him when he entered that place that was worse than Hell. He didn't want to look in the mirror, either, afraid of the striking, murderous color of his eyes, even though Angel had said they looked as though they had purplish tints to them now and again. Maybe they'd begin turning color just like his hair had

He'd once heard Angel threaten someone with turning someone's hair white with fear, and that's what he thought was happening to him: his hair was turning white with fear. Though he grew physically, he felt himself becoming more and more withdrawn, consumed like those creepy twins that get absorbed by the other while in the womb. It was like there was something dead inside him. Like he was something that was dead.

Angel didn't like holding his hand while they walked down the street. Rather he preferred having his arm or hand on his shoulder, in a way far more protective and intimate than handholding was. Another thing about walking was that they kept to the darkest, least-frequented alleys. Walks that should've taken five minutes were stretched out to twenty because of all the shortcuts they were forced to take.

Cherri always complained about it every time they went out with her, but Angel was unrelenting. Harry didn't fully understand the need for these measures, or why Angel didn't want Harry to be seen with him, to go out anywhere, that wasn't the trash site or some other similarly abandoned, soulless place.

He relaxed when they left the general neighborhood like he was under someone's watchful eye. Harry was too young to understand what Angel did for a living. In fact, he thought maybe he was a secret agent of some sort, and that was the reason for the apparent taboo surrounding Angel's profession. It would make sense: the late nights, the odd schedules, and sudden calls.

Sometimes - quite frequently, in fact - Angie would come home with a black eye, his fur stiff and matted with blood, a harried, burdened look weighing on his face, as his back had suddenly become laden with a thousand-pound weight. Of course, Angel always beat up in some way or another, but most of the time, he wore his scars and blood with pride, the gleaming thrill of fighting and doing wrong burning in his eyes.

But that wasn't the case when he went absent for many days because of his work, particularly late, cold nights. Afterward, he'd go days on end, not wanting to look Harry in the eye, slathering ointments on odd places of himself in secret. Still, the strong medicine always left a particular stench behind, and Harry knew something was amiss though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Angel and Cherri kept certain things to themselves regarding Angel's profession or things he'd done, things Harry would eventually have to know or realize by himself. It's not like they'd planned it or anything. There was just an unspoken dynamic, a sort of subconscious reluctance to expose Harry to what had happened and what continued to happen day in and day out. To what constantly happened to Angel. In fact, not even Angel could admit what happened to him - how the hell would they even raise it with Harry?

Angie was bold and outspoken with other people, and he didn't care about being overtly sexual - in fact, he did it on purpose. But with Harry… things were odd, and Angel dreaded the looming day in which Harry would slowly begin to understand all those things that he probably already had begun guessing at. His steel clutch on Harry's shoulder didn't let up.

They both felt like they were hiding things from the other, things that they felt would probably inevitably come up. They smiled at one another with affection and underlying guilt as they arrived, far too long later at a big sign that read 'Immediate Murder Professionals!' together with a subtitle that was horribly misspelled to the point of illegibility.

"In we go!" Cherri said, cheerily entering the dilapidated building from where the sign was dangling precariously. Inside, once on the floor of the I.M.P office, the three demons entered the business.

It was neatly and lavishly decorated, with furniture that seemed to aspire to grandiose but fell more than a little short, giving the room the overall sensation of being a cheap porno setting. Was that even a real lamp?

An imp and a short, furry creature were fussing about by the desk area, where a little bell and a telephone had been set up. "No, Loony, I told you to stop munching on the phone wires, this is the third time this week I've had it replaced-" when the imp caught how the young hound's eyes had wandered over to the three demons that'd just arrived, he immediately whirled around and put on what must've been his customer service face. "Hello! You must be Cherri! We talked on the phone?" The man energetically shook hands with Cherri and then turned to Angel.

"I'm Blitzo, and the 'o' is silent. Do I know you from somewhere?" "Only if you like it up the a-" Angel started but was cut short by Cherri's stiletto heel digging into his foot. Right. Harry was there. He didn't seem to have noticed anything, though, as he was completely entranced by the young hound that was using the telephone wire as floss.

Blitzo caught Harry staring and smiled, turning back and unwinding the cord from the hound's teeth, setting her in front of the newcomers. "This is Loona. Isn't she just gorgeous?" It was like his eyes had physically turned into little heart shapes from how he was looking at her. Loona rolled her badly-lined eyes at them and crossed her arms. She was wearing a plaid, school-girl-type skirt, but it was torn badly, and mock tattoos poorly lined her furry arms.

She was undoubtedly beautiful despite the bad application of her makeup and her body's odd shape, which was probably going through the first important, awkward stage of growth. Her sharp eyes seemed to cut at everyone even though she was clearly still a child.

"Emo in training," Angel muttered. He nudged Cherri. "Harry and I have similar tastes; it seems goth bitc-" Again, Cherri's stiletto came down. Hard. "Right," Blitzo clapped his hands together and rubbed them as though he could smell money emanating from Cherri and Angel. "Why don't you come to my office, and we can further discuss business?" He gestured to a room farther back, and the two other people walked towards it. Harry tried to follow, but Angel turned to stop him. "No, no, adult talk only. This stuff'll bore you. Taxes. Imps. Broccoli," Angie slicked back his hair. Blitzo looked warily from Harry to Loona then pointed to the young boy. "That kid well-behaved?"

"C'mon, he hasn't even grown his first pube yet," Angie replied with a tsk. "What's a pube?" Harry asked, though he already disliked the word. "Not now, Har." The three adults turned around and walked away, slamming the door behind them.

Harry turned awkwardly to Loona, looking at him disdainfully and fidgeting with her fingers as though she needed something to occupy them. She appeared restless, but it certainly wasn't because of Harry. "So, what are you? A lizard?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. Before Harry could reply, her expression became excited. Her eyes glowed, her whole demeanor changed. "A snake?" Harry didn't want the look on her face to fade away, but he hadn't fallen into the habit of lying yet, so he began saying no.

"I- n-not, I'm-" "Great, a stutterer," Loona made a dent on the reception's desk with a claw and whirled around, taking Harry's black-scaled arm in her paw. He shuddered with the sudden physical contact. He'd rarely seen kids his age, maybe only walking around outside his window or when he was allowed to go on walks.

But never so close, never speaking to them. And never so beautiful, nor so intimidating. He'd often imagined how to interact with them would go, what he'd say, what they might have in common, or if they'd think he was weird, somehow smell that strange, living part of his. It certainly had never been like this in his head. He didn't even know that kids could look how Loona looked - where had she even gotten all that from? She looked so interesting and unique, like bright neon colors or spicy peppers.

If Harry were a condiment, at that moment, he felt he was probably flour. He was painfully aware of his plainness as particularly striking against Loona's fascinating uniqueness. He, therefore, withdrew into himself even more than he would have done naturally if he'd interacted with any other kid. Besides, there was a sharp edge to Loona's eye that Harry's definitely lacked - she seemed like a honed blade, some war veteran that would put out a cigar in your eye if you so much as looked at them the wrong way.

And though she couldn't have been much older than him, Harry felt like she eclipsed him, a great, intelligent, steel-spined demon that was clearly his superior. Loona poked her head into the cavity of the reception desk and, with her free paw, took out a large glass cage. Inside, a beautiful snake of a deep purple color had woken and was staring at the two children with feverish interest. Loona held her face close to the glass. Harry could tell almost immediately that the snake didn't like that.

"I knew it. The sucker sleeps all day - I figured if I put another snake in front of him, then he'd wake up." "But I'm not a-" She tapped on the glass, and the snake's eyes glowed orange, yellow, red, and blue. Harry had never seen a creature like it.

He noticed that it wasn't really purple, but rather that in its scales, it held all the colors of the rainbow and even some that he hadn't even known he was capable of seeing. "Wow," he gasped. Loona was mesmerized as well. She'd never seen it so active, so shifting. In her excitement and mellow wickedness, she popped the lid of the cage open and reached down gently.

You really shouldn't-" Harry started, but the snake had already crawled its way up the girl's arm, and she was looking at it as it pressured her arm, extremely alarmed. She clearly wasn't used to or didn't have the comfort of screaming because her bug-eyes were jutting out, and her expression was one befitting at least a yelp. Instinctively, Harry reached out to stroke the snake, disregarding his proximity to Loona.

"Please, leave her alone," he asked the snake politely, with the firmest voice he could. He felt stupid - especially with the funny way Loona was looking at him. He had expected her to snarl at him for asking something of the snake, but no angry remark came from her. Especially since the snake twirled its head to look at Harry and immediately unwound itself from Loona's arm, instead slowly slithering over to where Harry stood, his mouth wide and his eyes bulging.

"The hell is going on here?" Blitzo bellowed from the doorway of his office. He leaped over to Loona and cradled her to his chest. Surprisingly, she allowed this to happen without biting. "He can speak to snakes," she blurted. Speak to snakes? Harry stared down, confused at the friendly snake coiled about his hand. Then, he realized what that odd expression had been on Loona's face. It wasn't apprehension or judgment. It was fear. A cold feeling settled over him. Angel and Cherri Bomb were next to Harry in a second. Angel was literally scratching his head at the strange scene.

Uh… so-" "Your kid set a snake on Loona," Blitzo accused just as the girl bit his palm and shoved him away from her. "Harry? Nah. He's a breadcrumb, our Harry." Blitzo just shook his head and rubbed his forehead. "Whatever. I have people to kill - your people. Take the snake with you when you go. I don't want it anywhere near my Loony." He turned and grabbed Loona's tiny arm in his hand. "Let's go, Loona." She didn't fight him on it as they headed to his office, but as she and Harry both left out of their respective doors, she wouldn't stop staring at him with a perplexed, frightened expression.

When they left the building, Cherri Bomb almost immediately leaped over a car with a bomb in her hand, racing away from them without so much a goodbye or an explanation. Typical. "So you're a snake-talker now, huh?" Angel asked, kicking an empty can on the sidewalk. It skittered across the street and landed in a manhole. "I don't know." Harry stroked the reptile's tiny, ever-shifting head absent-mindedly and looked ahead into the dark alley they were going through. Angel looked the snake dead in the eye.

"Well, it gives me the creeps, that's for sure." "Why? It's just a snake." Harry said defensively - honestly, with the amount of gross, Goddefying creatures in Hell, Angel drew the line at snakes? He even looked like a spider himself, a creature that was debatably creepier than a snake. "And you are a freaky kid. First, it's the earthquakes, then it's the dragon-shifting, and now you talk to snakes? What's next? Can you paint a Van Gogh holding a paintbrush between your buttcheeks?" Harry made a face.

"Are you going to hire Loona's dad?" Harry asked a little later, still thinking of Loona's glowing red eyes and the shocking vitality in her beautiful face. Harry didn't know people -girls in particular - could look so… so… he kicked a can on the sidewalk with as much force as Angel had.

"That loser, Blitzo?" Anthony asked, picking under a nail. "Well, first of all, it's not me hiring the imp; it's Cherri. And second, I think she might hire him if that scheming rat lowers the price." Harry nodded thoughtfully. Angel looked down. Towering over Harry as he did, he was suddenly struck by how tiny and childish he was. It was often easy to forget Harry's age, innocent though he was.

He was rather reserved and serious, like a school teacher you really liked, but that didn't cross the line from likable to a complete loon. Harry measured his words and was careful and meticulous with his demeanor and general actions. He was so unsuited to the general clamor and untidiness of Hell that Angel worried, not because he was infantile, but rather because he seemed already grown but not sufficiently mean.

And it didn't take strength or gall or anything along those lines to survive down here, and you just had to be the meanest, most awful son of a bitch you could be. For most, such a feat was a sweet release, a free ticket to do whatever you wanted and screw everyone over as you'd always desired when you'd been alive. Because, really, what was the consequence for being rude or evil? What was going to happen? The worst had already come to pass.

Looking down at him with his weird, marbled hair and his sweet, absent expression as he stroked what appeared to be his new pet, Angel couldn't find a sliver of meanness in the kid. It was partly what he loved about him, but it would also signify his undoing—both of their undoing's. Once again, after all these years, Anthony was struck by the injustice of it all. He could never understand what Harry was doing there, beside him, stepping on chewing tobacco and thrown-up burgers.

As fitting and honestly cool as Harry's demon form was, Anthony couldn't help but feel like Harry's own nature was betraying him. And yet, was it really betraying him if Harry couldn't be mean, but perhaps could be strong, if that was the only advantage he could ever have? Angel didn't know. He whistled some dirty sea shanty on the way home, his hand on Harry's tiny shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

The day Harry met Loona, he began drawing. He'd come home and started doodling on the first drawing-viable surface he came across. Anthony hadn't had the heart to tell or explain to Harry that it was just a cheap condom wrapper.

The poor quality pen Harry had taken that was lying around the house quickly died in his hands, so he began painting and drawing with anything he could find. He smeared ketchup all over his plate and distributed it over and over again in different shapes, Angel watching the child messing up the whole table attentively but never saying a word.

After the ketchup, he found the splintered half of a pen that surprisingly worked better than the first one and drew every open centimeter of the scraps around the house; when the scraps ran out, he drew all over his body until he fell asleep. When Angel came home to find Harry snoring on his thin mattress at night, he was about to congratulate him on illicitly tattooing himself but found that it was simply normal ink.

Staring down at the child, he considered his new craze. Harry had never really been obsessed with anything or hyper-fixated on toys or other passing interests as other children were.

Angel had a wad of cash in his pocket at that moment that he was going to spend on his after-work blow and cigarettes, but instead, he headed over to a shop and bought a pack of pencils and a thick sheaf of paper, leaving it beside Harry's bed so he'd find it when he woke up.

Over time, Harry's drawings turned from shapeless, incomprehensible blobs to real shapes, those shapes to accurate depictions, and from those depictions, his own interpretations of the people and faces all around him. He drew Angel and Cherri doing different things during the day - scratching their asses, laughing, giving or receiving a punch and drew himself periodically. He didn't do self-portraits very often, using it more as a means to document his changes in appearance.

By the age of ten, his hair was fully white, his eyes were half purple, half green, and his hands had curled into shapes like talons. Both Angel and Harry had calmed down and now only passingly commented on some new aspect of Harry's appearance, but it was never the alarm that they'd had the first few years. Of course, Harry also drew Alqamar, who'd grown from a tiny snake to the size of a Boa constrictor. He faithfully hung around his neck or lazed around the house, tripping up its inhabitants by camouflaging himself discreetly against the furniture.

Late at night, when Angel was at work or asleep, Harry turned on a single light, got his favorite, perfectly sharpened pencil, and drew Loona. Those were the worst ones, he thought. He couldn't bring justice to any of her expressions, to how her body curved and then became concave, to the soft ripples of her fur, or, especially, to that bright, wicked gleam in her eye. He worked all night trying to get it just right, spending hours on an iris, on how the light hit her nose.

All for nothing - he was never pleased with any of his depictions of her. He shoved his drawings, incredibly frustrated, under his mattress and fell asleep with a heavy heart. He knew Angel would've killed him if he knew - hell, if anyone found out what he did, he would be on many people's hit-lists, but he couldn't help it.

If he knew Angel would be away for many hours, he'd perch himself on the vacant building in front of I.M.P and wait to catch a glimpse of Loona. Most of the time, it was a fruitless activity. He just ran risks only to watch imps and demons milling in and out of the building, uninteresting as could be. But he'd been able to see Loona a handful of times, and that made the risks, the boring stakeout, and the mental reprimanding he gave himself all worth it.

She seemed to shift like the seasons - he noticed she learned to do her eyeliner wicked quickly, her form filled out, her hair looked silkier, smoother, and, most importantly, that glow in her gaze never extinguished.

He knew that when he fell asleep thinking of Loona, sometimes the dreams didn't come. So she was worth it, even if most of the inhabitants of Hell would suddenly swoop down to kill him all at once.

One night, after a particularly lousy drawing session, he had a vivid, murderous dream. The green had blinded him with his eyes shut, but through the emerald shot of death, he thought he'd seen his mother's face. Or, at least, a woman's face, a woman who looked like she loved him terribly because of the fear she carried in her expression as she died. Harry woke hot and sticky, and when he unglued himself from his sheets and walked over to the bathroom, the face that stared back at him was not his own.

A perverse, hairless face with features that seemed to melt into one another stared back at him, both ancient and youthful at once, looking angry yet forgiving. "Harry," it used his throat to speak - a throaty, dead sound. Harry started screaming with a voice that wasn't his and began clawing at this person that wore his face. Angel woke him up violently, and Harry had had to wear bandages for the red marks on his face for a couple of weeks.

He painted his bandaged face, and he drew the man that'd been in the mirror, certain that it'd been him that had killed his parents, that had killed him, that'd sent him to Hell. He wanted to see his face clearly if he ran into him someday. For some reason, he never disclosed any of this with Angel. Maybe he didn't want to worry him. Maybe he didn't want to recognize it himself or hear how conspiratorial and paranoid he sounded.

He feared Angel would tell him he was being dramatic, that he was desperately seeking some explanation, some backstory to his life that he could never reach. He didn't want to believe that was true - he knew this was real. But since the self-maiming, Angel had been particularly alert. He incessantly asked him whether something was wrong if he'd dreamed something specific, and he wouldn't let up.

So, to pacify him, Harry had worked for hours on a detailed drawing of the two of them smiling and playing together. Before Angel left to do God knew what, Harry slipped it into his pocket without his guardian's knowledge, hoping it'd be a sweet surprise. Angel would finally understand that everything was alright between them. That was the drawing Valentino found on Angel that day.


	6. Chapter 6

Warning this chapter is going to get dark. Remember, there is a reason hell is considered a sinner's Eternal punishment.

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Anthony wasn't clean. Angel wasn't clean, and Angel Dust most certainly was not clean. From the time he'd found dirty little Harry lying in his own filth and crying, shit all over his scarred forehead, he'd found himself confronted by a feeling he hadn't faced in such a long time he'd forgotten how it felt, what it did to him.

The feeling was guilt. Harry's twisted, cherubic face had called to his attention the grime and pestilence in his own soul - he'd seen in the baby all the things that he hadn't been: innocent, pure. Clean.

Harry's situation was so infuriating to him because when Anthony looked in the mirror, he saw explicitly stated in his demon form all the reasons that he had been sent to Hell, all the reasons why he was, top to bottom, someone that belonged in a hole like this.

Harry hadn't done anything, hadn't hurt a soul, hadn't even been conscious when he'd been landed here, and yet here he was, with all the rest of the demons that truly deserved what they'd gotten. The way Harry was given the same muck and sorrow as all others, lowered to a position that wasn't truly his, weighed on Angel's heart heavily.

On the one hand, he felt guilt for never even considering giving up his sweet drugs when he'd found Harry. His lifestyle had changed in the slightest, his attitude only sawing alteration when it concerned Harry, but all around, he still felt like the same, horrid, gluttonous person that'd been landed here. On the other hand, he felt that even trying to raise himself to Harry's level would be an insult to Harry himself. He'd never be good enough, kind enough, considerate enough to deserve someone like

Harry - so why even try? Harry was a beam that shone over a dark ocean, but Angel's ship had long since sunk. There was nothing he could do that Harry could do to salvage him from the depths.

And so, this was the predominant mentality he carried with him throughout everyday life. Every once in a while, a particular smile, a particular sentiment, made him regret every single decision he'd ever taken, all those decisions that had permitted evil. He felt momentarily elated, like that weird shot of energy certain people get late at night to suddenly accommodate their lives.

But it was fleeting, a passenger feeling of no relevance or continuity, and so his ship continued sinking. He was jittery about Harry's recent behavior.

Convinced that Harry was onto him about his dirty deeds, he was jumpy and anxious, noticing some things that Harry himself kept from him. It made for a tense, awkward atmosphere, a dynamic he didn't enjoy having with his child.

He wasn't sure how he could help it besides telling Harry the hard truth about what he did for a living, hoping that somehow the kid would find it in his kind, innocent soul to still love and respect him despite the degrading conditions he had made for himself, that he continued making for himself.

All these things he thought and weighed continuously in his mind until he finally arrived at the address one of Valentino's assistants had given him. He looked up at the tall, looming warehouse before him. Its windows were all shattered, and loose glass was hanging from the sills as well as strewn on the ground below.

The structure was of faded red brick, blackened and charred in certain areas or of a stinking, rotting green in others. Inside, it was mostly dark, but Angel caught certain bursts of neon purples, pinks, and greens flashing and being cut off by the light outside of the window.

The ground was shaking thunderously beneath his feet to the Pum Pum Pum of some very loud techno bursting from the inside. Angel was relieved: clearly, the gig would be some orgy-related techno party bullshit, and techno parties always involved way more drugs than usual productions. Salivating at the thought of the pastel pink and blue candies that would be waiting for him, as well as the thin, towering lines of dust that begged to be inhaled by his raw nose, he stepped to the entryway.

Inside, a tall, curvy demon with marbled black and brown hair, an earpiece, and a very distinguishable mole on top of her lip eyed him up and down, dangling a clipboard precariously on a sharp fingernail.

She then popped a bubble with the gum she was chewing. Aside from her, everyone inside had gone full animal. It was like something out of a perverse mind's dream. "Angel," she drawled in her nasal accent. "Valentino told me to send you straight to him before letting you go off to your snorting and whoring."

Angel rolled his eyes, but his pulse quickened considerably. "Aw, c'mon - do you see how tempting this is?" Angel gestured to a couple right beside them, one of them with their ass up in the air and the other doing a line of coke from it. A cameraman with a split lip and a beer in his free hand was filming them. "No exceptions," she snapped, pointing toward the bar. Angel groaned but obediently headed over to the bar, where he asked the people serving where Valentino could be found.

The atmosphere was intoxicating - the smell of sex, vomit, and decadence hung heavy in the air like a humid blanket. Though it was hot outside, it was like a deeper circle of Hell in here, the random bursts of cold air issuing from malfunctioning air conditioners being the only lifeline the druggies in here had.

Moans and grunts could be heard on every corner you turned. People were fucking against the wall, the bar, on the floor, and obviously on the completely occupied couches that lined the warehouse's walls, sticky with sweat and spit and other unnamable substances.

His feet squelched as he picked them up walking - every pleasure den's floor was sticky, even if you arrived five hours before a party. Angel secretly feared someday his feet would be glued to a club's gum-like floor, and he'd have to stay there forever, a cock in his mouth and coke in his nose.

Well, maybe he didn't completely fear it. It was easy for Angel to feel completely wrapped up in his surroundings - it was like this was his natural habitat, the only place where he knew what was needed of him, that he was wanted and sought after, not a disturbance but rather a celebrity among the wretched.

The unsettling thought that he belonged here, in the stench and steamy soup of sin, and not raising a kid suddenly wormed its way into his mind. But he didn't allow himself to think about Harry when he was at work or doing anything work-related. 'Work-related' meaning shameful and dirty.

The bartenders led him through a small, graffitied door just beside the drinks, and inside it was silent as could be. The little office was a shock compared to the sweaty jungle outside - the floor was a creamy marble, so shiny Angel could see his own reflection looking back at him, stupefied.

A long, red velvet lounging couch was set against one wall and a gold-and-white desk against another. Behind the desk was a majestic, ornate chair that looked more like a throne than anything else. In it sat Valentino, his long, elegant hands entangled together, his face sharpening into a Machiavelli grin.

Don't shiver, Angel told himself. "Angel Dust," he hissed in his sultry, decadent voice. He stood and sauntered to where Angel was perched, gazing at his surroundings, shocked by the sudden change in atmosphere. It was a comfortable temperature here, the floor squeaky and sparkly, the silence deafening.

He'd never been in this set before - he reckoned it was a new acquisition of his pimp's, or Valentino would've gotten him here before, no doubt about it. "Boss," Angel smiled uneasily and popped out his hip. He never knew if his feigned confidence actually managed to convince Valentino. He reckoned not.

"I called you here to give you this," Valentino sighed, waltzing over to tilt himself behind the couch, from where he produced a sexual contraption made of black leather that was obviously meant to keep Angel wound up. Angel wondered if he had to put an apple in his mouth to go along with the outfit.

"Halfway through the party, though," he warned Angel, handing it over to him in a slow, whimsical motion. It was an odd instruction - parties here could last until daybreak or go on for days and days, even weeks. Angel assumed he'd get a smack in the ass and an angry look when it was time to strap it on. Gazing up and down at his main star through his heart-shaped sunglasses as if he were a prized dog that was about to be presented, Valentino took in Angel's general appearance, noticing the white corner of a piece of paper that was poking out from Angel's jacket pocket.

Knowing no boundaries or limits, since Angel Dust belonged to him and, by extension, so did all of his possessions, Valentino fished the paper out, balancing it between his two fingers, and unfolded it.

Angel, perplexed at having been robbed of something he hadn't even realized he'd had, watched, confused, but immediately understood from just a peek of a centimeter of the page that it was one of Harry's drawings. "I-" Angel immediately began, searching desperately for some explanation, but Valentino didn't allow him the chance to continue.

With all the same elusive, elegant gestures with which he'd moved around, he grabbed a tuft of Angel's hair and brought his head down on the desk. It rattled violently, pens, papers, and dildos flying everywhere, littering the floor, poking Angel's foot. "Don't you dare bring evidence of that little shit's existence in here - do you understand me?"

He snarled; all the gentleness evaporated from his tone. "How did you-" "How did I know? How did I know? Do you think that anything escapes me? Do you take me for a fool?!" His voice was simultaneously deep and high, breaking and strengthening as if it was a wave slamming upon the shore. More a tsunami than a wave, really. Valentino brought Angel's head down again, hard. He whimpered pathetically, and it was painfully loathsome even to himself.

"That's what I like to hear," Valentino whispered close to Angel's face, licking his earlobe. Angel felt exposed, scared, utterly humiliated. Really, how could he have been so stupid as to believe that Valentino didn't know about Harry? He probably knew the exact milligram of drugs Angel had in his body at any given time.

Even if Angel had kept Harry locked up since the moment, he had found him, and there was no way Valentino's wouldn't have found out, some way or another. He'd been fooling himself like the perfect idiot he was. When he heard Valentino unbuckling his belt, he knew the worst was yet to come. His body trembled against his will as Valentino pressed up hard behind him. His flesh became that of a chicken's, rising hard and stiff against the unwanted, alien weight of Valentino on him. Well, not completely alien.

This wasn't the first time this had happened. "You can't keep anything from me. I own you - I see you. Everywhere. I see all of you," he hissed, spreading Angel's legs apart. "If I ever," he grunted, spitting on his hand, "see any of your sentimental shit brought in here…" he waited for a second and leaned even closer. Angel could smell his breath, like old blood and dried roses.

"I'll fuck your little boy. Then I'll make you fuck him - and I will watch with relish." Angel wanted to scream, wanted to gouge out his own eyes and put two bullets through his ears just so he could escape what Valentino was saying because he couldn't have Harry in his mind when this happened, he couldn't - how could he look at his boy in the face ever again? In a horrid turn, Valentino took the drawing of Angel and Harry in one free hand and held it in front of Angel's face so he couldn't escape looking at it. And then he began.

Angel didn't come back home for days after that particular afternoon. Harry, by then, was surely used to his absences. He couldn't bear staring him in the face.

The orgy at the warehouse marked the first few hours that began a rampage. Angel made sure never to have a moment in which he wasn't drooling, wasn't about to fall off of his feet. He couldn't look Harry in the eye, couldn't see him, and imagine all the things Valentino had said about him while he used Angel's body. "…pay so much for a cute little hybrid…" "…young lads are in fashion…" "I want to see, does he take it like his daddy?"

Angel lost his mind for a few days, and when he found it once again, he wished to lose it all over again, and so his absence was prolonged. Not even Cherri could find him, though it wasn't as though she'd tried more than usual.

How could she know this time Angel would return with something worse than Hell bearing down on him? Angel went to the underground of the underground to be among the worst depravities Hell had to offer. He would crawl into a hole made of shit and earth before returning home - all the time, he avoided the apartment, avoided Harry. He couldn't associate Valentino with Harry. He couldn't look at Harry's face. He knew he loved him, but in those moments of clarity, he didn't allow even the smallest crumb of love for Harry to exist even in the remotest crevice of his wilted heart.

All he wanted to love was drugs, and he wanted to be exempt from all purity, from all righteousness - he never wanted to look at something good ever again if it meant seeing his inverted mirror reflected at him. He was dirty and raw and disgusting.

He couldn't stare Harry in the face and project all that he thought, all that he had heard of the child. Those things that Valentino had called him: a filthy hole with no reason to exist other than for others to use and discard, a pathetic worm with no love other than to shove things up his ass and nose, a would-be father to a weak child - all those things were true.

He couldn't look Harry in the face. When he finally came home, his body was lathered in substances - where it wasn't covered in powder, and it was in alcohol, where it wasn't alcohol, it was blood, where it wasn't blooded, it was sexual fluids. He made it as far as the outside door of his apartment before collapsing, starting to slowly drown in a sweltering pool of his own vomit. Luckily enough, and by pure coincidence, it was Cherri that found him, not Harry.

She hauled him over to her place in a garbage bag, cursing profusely under her breath all the while. She then threw his unconscious body in her bathtub and ran it under freezing water. Angel reacted only by twitching. Infuriated, she slapped him hard across the face. Angel woke up.


End file.
